I tried. I tried my best to be strong, to be steadfast and solid. I knew that this trip home would be the hardest, not having the numbness of just losing dad to protect me from grieving.
Zurich to Newark was easy. The stress of being up for most of the night combined with last-minute packing had worn me out. By the time I’d made it to my seat on the plane (which was late boarding as always, thank you Zurich Airport and Continental) I was happy for a breather.
Newark wasn’t that bad either. Even though I’m no fan of the place, but the madness that makes that airport one of the worst on the eastern seaboard, plus the international baggage transfer, plus realizing that the man standing in front of me at the security check clearance with his young son was Ice-T (no, he was just dropping his son off, didn’t go through the metal detector, that would have been classic), were great brain fillers.
But the the last leg.
That leg from Newark to Memphis.
Actually, I was okay until the pilot made the announcement of our approach. That’s when it hit me.
Dad wasn’t going to be standing there.
He wasn’t going to be at baggage claim, wearing his baseball cap, t-shirt, and blue work trousers with the obligatory-for-dads set of keys attached to a belt loop.
I kept thinking to myself, “Be strong, don’t break, remember Mom said she needed you to be strong, etc.” But the more I did that, and the closer I got to baggage claim, the weaker I got.
I stood there, waiting and wishing for my damned bag to pop out on the conveyor belt. I willed it to come. Then I walked outside to see I could find Mom.
I heard my name. It was Mom, walking over from the parking lot toward me. Alone.
And that’s when I couldn’t keep it together anymore.
Dad wasn’t with her. And he’s not in this house. I’m sitting here at our dining room table, facing the area where the hallway from the bedrooms meets the living room longing to see Dad lumber in from around the corner.
He’d usually ask if I was hungry or if I wanted coffee (”cawfee”:-)). Then he’d go into how my mom was the one who got me hooked on the stuff. Then we’d laugh. Then we’d talk politics, or gardening, or politics, or cooking, or politics, or why hadn’t I started back on piano…
…or politics.
I miss the sound of his houseshoes sliding across the kitchen linoleum, hearing him exhale and say “well Lord” each time he was about to embark on a major adventure. These could range from changing a fuse, to walking down the driveway to the mail box, to just letting the dog out.
It just doesn’t seem right.
I’m going out to the cemetery today. Mom said that his headstone should be up. I don’t know how I’m going to feel about that. In one way, it makes everything simple, complete. Stone. Solid. That’s it. He’s dead.
But that’s what I’m tackling. My father’s life, summed up with a cold, white, military-issue headstone.
And his life was so much more than that.
Comments (7)
Rashunda, Otis’s grave is symbolized by a cold, white, military-issue tombstone, not his life.
His life is in the stories you tell us, and the ones you remember daily as you walk through this world. And in the great things you have done and have yet to do. You, Rashunda, are his legacy, his lasting influence on the world.
Don’t forget that dad DID serve the army. Maybe what happend in his life when he was serving the army changed his life so significantly that he chose to have such a military burial - and he could have chosen differently, I’m sure. My mum chose to have no grave at all. My aunt chose to no grave at all. Not having a tombstone doesn’t mean that that’s a sum of their life, either!! It just means that they hated the graves of their parents so much they didn’t want anyone to hate their graves. Don’t underestimate what it means for a guy to serve the army, particularly when things happen, or when stuff is going on. Even when he doesn’t tell people about it at any later point in life, those most been some of the most striking memories for him. Maybe he was extremely ill, too. If I had served in 1947 in France as a US soldier and gone through all kinds of things unthinkable today, quite likely I’d also have taken that simple stone thing option.
My sister,
I am so sorry for your loss…and I completely agree with Kyla. You are a shining, beautiful testament to his life. He gave this world something wonderful — he gave us you.
Rashunda, my heart grieves with you today. Thank you for sharing a little about the kind of person your father was; he must have been a wonderful man. I also agree with Kyla. His legacy is not a small marble slab, his legacy is you.
Very sorry for your loss. Your father’s legacy lives on in you, your family, and the memories and dreams you all share because he was here.
Hi Rashunda
This poem by Mary Frye helped me when my beautiful Grandmother died, it’s simple but a comfort…
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain.
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am the morning hush.
I am the graceful rush
of beautiful birds in circling flight.
I am the star shine of the night.
I am the flowers that bloom.
I am in a quiet room.
I am the birds that sing.
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
I can only give support to what everybody else has said. It sounds like he’s left you with a solid grounding to deal with his ‘earthly’ absence if nothing else, both with the strength of character that you evidently possess, and with the memories of his wonderful life.
My thoughts are with you x